Crimson Regret
by masque
Summary: What could have happened. Fate took too long and love paid the price. BC


**Crimson Regret**

When does it stop? Does the pain ever fucking stop? It's always there, waiting for me to come down, a Wild animal waiting to be unleashed, scratching, clawing its way through nearly shredded vocal chords to explode in fury like a force of nature.

I can barely control myself anymore.

I know this part. Wonder if I ever left. But it'll be over soon.

Falling, fallen, hard. A scrap of light hits the shiny metal of the knife resting not-so-innocently among the bed sheets.

Jack's misguided sense of humanity scolds me for the drugs, but there's this flicker in his eyes when he sees me, the real me, and I know he protests only because he feels he should. He's afraid for me, I think, but more afraid of me.

He should be.

Reality kicking in again, that strange sense of vertigo when the cold, numbing shades of gray are ripped away from me. Frayed yellow curtains, putrid green plastered on the walls, the violent violet of the bed sheets. Only one real piece of furniture left, after I tore through it all. The bed. Plain wooden frame, mattress, and that god-awful linen. Jack insists on it. Has to complement his image. Has to have somewhere to fuck me.

Cold hands. Cold heart. Cold fucking.

I can't fucking do this anymore. Drugs and pain. Pain or drugs. One step too far in either direction goes to the same end. Just a question of which one to choose, isn't it?

So, I have.

Coming down's always a bitch. I foolishly hoped I could savor the unfeeling and just slide into forgetfulness, but it's better this way. I can't ask for love, so I'll beg for pain. Only thing I have to offer him.   
Brian's dead.

I left him and the arrogant deceitful bastard got himself killed.

In the back of my mind I'm laughing at the stain that's soaking into Jack's fashionable sheets. Definitely not like the cherry red of Jack's hair. More like a scarlet. Crimson.

_"Darling Curt, everyone knows that different shades clash horribly."_

Not even a fucking hour in Berlin before I was shooting up like I'd never had any reason to stop. Maxwell didn't need me, and Brian could do so much better. Angry, jealous, betrayed, hating Jerry fucking Devine, the pathetic groupies, the fucking studio, and myself most of all. For giving in, rolling over and thinking that maybe this time I wouldn't get screwed. For actually thinking someone could… 

Christ, Brian, why'd you let me go?

_A too warm night like any other, Curt sat on the balcony of their latest hotel room. He thought they were back in the UK, but he wasn't sure. Didn't matter, Brian would tell him tomorrow._

Wherever they were, they'd arrived with the usual pomp and circumstance; the entourage in full glamorous regalia, loud, rude and impeccably stylish, photographers lying in wait for the next front page picture, reporters demanding to know every intimate detail. As though his personal life was nothing more than a research project to be studied and analyzed.

Not Curt's idea of a good time.

After another long drag on the cigarette dangling from his fingers, Curt tilted his head back to look up at the dark sky. Thin, wispy clouds gathered overhead, the moon just barely visible in its crescent shape, the bright colors and wondrous electricity of the city below drowning out all but the brightest stars. Only a scant few managed to shine their light on Curt, his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, a faint trail of smoke fading upward.

A light touch on his shoulder made him tense briefly before relaxing into the hand that slowly stroked his back.

"Missed you."

In response, Curt uncurled from his position, stretching out a leg and let his arms fall from their protective embrace. Barely a second later, a warm body had cuddled up in his lap, and Curt couldn't suppress the chuckle that escaped him as Brian sprawled out gracefully, his head resting against Curt's chest. Brian took a pull on the offered cigarette before carefully placing it between Curt's lips. Curt inhaled, tasting Brian, and let it linger there before snuffing out the dim glow on the cement floor. His fingers found Brian's hair, soft and soothing. The ache eased and faded as Brian sighed and closed his eyes.

Cars passed by, the myriad sounds of traffic saturating the night air in a constant rush to push, to move, to go. But the harsh clamor of civilization softened, muted, dimmed on a balcony where people were simply…breathing. 

Curt gently squeezed the hand grasped in his, drawing Brian closer and urging him awake.

"Come to bed?"

Brian opened his eyes and smiled. 

I left him.

Why would I hold out against the one thing that could make everything go away? Heroin. As faithful as any lover, twice as painful.

I left him. For choosing them, it, everything over me. And putting me back in my place. I hated him almost as passionately as I loved him for giving me hope…and taking it away. Hated him for it.  
I wished he could fucking feel it.

And now he's dead.

Newspapers scream his name at me, accusing me in harsh black and white bold lettering, DEAD…and it's my fault.

_"It's always your fault, you little shit. Haven't you learned that yet, Curtis?"_

The cold is creeping back in. I can't feel my fingers anymore and the futile throb coursing through my veins is just a faint tingle now.  
And every thought is Brian.

Mischievous blue eyes, soft warm hands, wicked sputtery laughter, and so beautiful he couldn't possibly be real. He'd look at me and every glance kissed my heart.

God dammit, Brian. Why'd you have to go and fucking die on me?  
I shouldn't have pushed you. I should've known I wasn't enough for you. I should've let it go. I should've died with you.

Too many regrets, Brian, but that's one I can fix.

I'm definitely losing it now. Imagining your fingers, whisper soft, tracing my face, your hand brushing back loose strands of hair…no…aggressive hands, pushing, pulling, shaking me. Through a world gone out of focus, I look up and know I'm dreaming because you're staring down at me. Brian. My beautiful everything.

"…sorry…Curt, please…look at me…"

I am looking, baby. Always so enchanted by you. And even in my dream you still have that ridiculous blue hair.

"Why, Curt? Why did you do this?"

So tired. So blissfully numb. Such a lovely dream.

"…i love you…" 

_fin_


End file.
